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A Virtuous Man
As well as could be expected, Dorian thought of the opening negotiation with Riley. Though what he’d told her had all been true, well, except for the cause of his current state, he found himself feeling a tinge of regret for some of the falsehoods which he’d soon be selling in order to achieve the aims of his handlers. He had a plan for getting both Marisol and Kate aboard, albeit for the short term. His future mother-in-law’s desire to embark upon some half assed manhunt for a trained assassin flew directly in the face of his earlier “hide out in the black” strategy. And though he had no desire to go out hunting that trouble, there was no way in hell that he could leave her to her own devices, either. The situation was further complicated by Kate Russokova’s presence. She’d made it clear that she wasn’t happy being placed in his care for the next leg of her journey. Unless he came up with a different plan, he conjured that she’d like his current notions even less. He clambered down the steps to the cargo bay deck, and the infirmary. A quick glance toward the open ramp showed the back of Riley’s head as she rode the chair in hopes of business. Assured of a moment’s privacy, the medic entered the infirmary. He opened his shirt to examine the ravages of last night’s interrogation. The heel marks to his chest were all purplish black, with the cigarette burns offering a nasty punctuation to each. Dorian probed the bruises, catching his breath as he pushed firmly into the worst of the bunch. Though the rib hurt like all hell, it didn’t give way to the prod. “Cracked at worst,” he muttered as he set to cleaning the burns. A few bandages later, Dorian felt the edge to his pain soften as the injection too hold. There was still business to be dealt with, but for now, with the ship’s quietude beckoning, he opted for the comforts of his bed. Gun belt, coat, and boots all landed in their places as he stretched out, a single pistol tucked close by. It certainly has gotten complicated, he mused, while a darker notion unvoiced still asserted that this was only the beginning. He opened his pocket watch. Though he’d frequently viewed her photograph, Maria’s brilliant grin still held the power to disarm him. Her eyes shone bright with promise. Dorian studied her face, giving himself over to the fantasy…he could do it, change his life, today, if he chose. Book a passage to Santo, claim his bride, and then settle into the simple life of the reputable practitioner. His newfound medical connections could fast track him to a complete physician’s credentials in record time. He could put away the guns and adopt a proper, simple life, “A virtuous man,” Dorian whispered to Maria’s photograph. He could be a man, cast in his father’s mold. And yet he knew that would not happen. War was coming. The Network chiefs had all but admitted the fact. He saw it in their eyes as they carefully parsed their words. The spectre hung in the glances he’d traded with Marisol as well. “We’re on our back foot,” the leader had confided, offering insight to the covert intelligence struggles and the Brownoats’ current disadvantage. And now he’d been given a mission whose conclusion would move the ‘verse one step closer to open rebellion…independence, a nebulous concept whose price of blood and grief was always too high, and always quickly forgotten. With luck, he’d be off Lunar Veil before push came to shove and pistols were pulled. No one on this boat deserved to face that sort of threat. “And you,” Dorian whispered to the photograph. “Especially you.” He snapped the watch shut, tucked it into his vest pocket, and permitted himself to drift off.